


The poisoned well

by Shadowmun



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27208030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmun/pseuds/Shadowmun
Summary: Everyone loses something during the trials. Some lose themselves.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	The poisoned well

**Author's Note:**

> Quite angsty and not exactly a happy ending.  
> I tried to have a look at why Geralt is always so grumpy and has such a negative worldview.
> 
> As per usual: no beta, non-native, critics welcome

It was always the three of them. In any mess, there was always Geralt, Eskel and Talir. Vesemir couldn’t even count the times anymore, when they had to sweep the halls, clean the nightpots, do all the miserable chores, because of another funny disaster they had caused or at least were found within. It never stopped them anyways.

And if someone felt inclined to attack them, or worse, the younger, more vulnerable pups, they always found a way to get back to them… and have a lot of fun on the way. And what got them going like this, was made of the same fabric, that would meld them into good witchers one day. They were smart, they were resilient, they were fast. Each, with his own spin on these qualities. Geralt was very serious and responsible, always taking care, the jokes stayed on the funny side. Eskel on the other hand was extremely amiable. And Talir was nimble and fast, more thief than fighter, but a good addition all the same.

Despite or maybe because of them, being troublemakers, Vesemir was especially close to them and dreaded every sign of them maturing. All to soon, they had to face the trials, all to soon they would have to grow up, all at once, all to soon, they would face terrible pain and possibly death. And Vesemir feared the worst. Eskel would probably make it. His strong straight-forward mind and generous frame allowed some hope on that. Geralt would pass, too, if he got lucky. What he lacked in the physical department were more than made up by simple stubbornness. Surely, he was too determined to die. Talir though… He probably wouldn’t make it. Too small, too weak, too easily distracted, too erratic… It would be a small wonder. He fared well in most lessons, yes, but only because he could compensate with speed and had friends to help him.

Sometimes, just in the back of his own mind, Vesemir questioned, how, meaning not at all, the boys were selected. Maybe they could reduce the price for becoming a witcher, if only they would choose the candidates more carefully.

\----

Geralt lay silent, shivering, weak. His pain was over, he was alive and would stay so, but he could still hear the echoes of the other boys’ screams and the booming silence beyond that. How many of his friends lived, how many had died? His newly sharpened ears tried to dissect the sounds around him, accounting for every heartbeat, every familiar, if hoarse voice. Daniel, next to him, was dead already, but not yet removed. Kendar was on his last breath.

Eskel seemed alive. And getting better. Geralt sighed in relief and went on. Tomaš was awake and still screaming. He wasn’t done yet, but he would make it. Jiran was gone, an empty table all that remained of him. Talir… breathed heavily and broke into painfully manic laughter from time to time. He wasn’t decided yet. Geralt tortured his brain for any prayer to any god, to make them help him.

Maybe he should have prayed for himself, he thought, as they brought another bitter, burning potion for him, one that pushed him back into the agony, and almost made him loose his mind.

\----

It was the last season of training for them, before the young wolves would go on the path for the first time. Eskel, Talir, Tomaš and Geralt were all who remained of those going through the trials. Now, they trained as if their life depended on it. Because it did. Soon, any mistake could be their last one. The penultimate test to this had already left them changed, scarred. Geralt had started questioning his every move; after the additional mutations they had performed on him. Eskel had lost his easy smile and relaxed attitude. Tomaš was almost paranoid, checking his environment constantly. And Talir drew back. He talked the bare minimum and isolated himself from everyone and everything.

All four of them had troubles sleeping and ate only when told to. As the trials themselves had poisoned their bodies, the break of trust poisoned their souls. They probably still knew love, but they didn’t believe in it anymore. They slapped away any hand hold out for them.

Fortunately, the older witchers were not offended. It was expected. They would come by, once the path taught them, the only people, they could trust were those, who shared their fate. Vesemir of course knew it, too, but they were his pups. He had trained them, loved them, cared for them. It still hurt more, than he dared to admit. He remained close, for they needed him. His advice, his experience.

One morning, it seemed, the worst lay behind them. Eskel even smiled again, for the first time in weeks. And Tomaš was able to coax him into a mock-fight, that drew quite some attention from the younger pups. They gathered around them and applauded every action. Even the rhythm of Talir and Geralt working at the wooden dummies, slowed, as they watched the skirmish, while the little boys crept closer and withdrew, around them.

Suddenly, in a flash of metal and armor, Talir jumped forward, right into a group of young boys. His weapon slashed downwards, right towards the heads of the children around him, unwatching, fast, without hesitation. When blood splashed all over them, Vesemir screamed, jumped forward, for seconds not knowing, what had happened and who had been hit.

He screamed, urging the boys away, jumping forward, but he was to far away, would be to late. Tomaš wasn’t. He had jumped into the fray, in front of the pups, accepting a deep gash in his side from Talir’s sword. He fought, desperately blocking, while Talir attacked relentlessly. There was nothing human in his movements, nothing familiar. His yellowish eyes were shrunken to barely visible slits, his attacks that of a viper.

Tomaš, although a nimble fighter, could do nothing but defend and block, defend and block. Geralt and Eskel came to help him, but to late. Before Geralt’s sword slashed at Talir’s hand, the latter landed a final blow, cutting through bone and flesh, splashing Tomaš’ lifeblood over the sand of their training ground.

Then, Geralt was there, hitting his hand, disarming him, wrestling him to the ground with Eskel’s and soon also Vesemir’s help. Talir still wriggled and fought for a few moments, until he fell limp, breathing heavily. Closing his eyes, he shivered and screamed, screamed so hellishly intense and painful, as if still caught up in the trials.

\----

Sitting in front of the cell, Geralt watched the friend of his childhood years endlessly pacing around its constraints. Around and around, again and again. He looked calm, but if the situation itself hadn’t stirred him up, the constant nervous walk had. “In all Gods’ name, Talir, what happened?”, he eventually snapped and sighed at Talir’s helpless shrug.

“Geralt… it takes a thief to catch a thief. And they made us the monsters to slay monsters.”

“Those weren’t monsters, but kids!”, Geralt exclaimed heatedly, and was met with another shrug.

“Sounds like a bad excuse, but… this wasn’t me. Not… exactly, at least.” Talir finally stopped his never-ending stroll directly in front of Geralt, kneeling and seeking his gaze. “It felt like I was just watching someone else doing it…” His eyes were all friendly and sympathetic, just as Geralt remembered them. And honestly, the Talir, Geralt remembered was incapable of lying. Surely, the trials couldn’t have changed that.

But still. Geralt couldn’t help, but lash out, hurt his childhood friend. “Tomaš is dead. Because of you.” As if a dam had broken, more words spilled out, no matter, if he tried to stop them. “He managed the trials, he could have lived, but you killed him. Ended him.”

Finally, he, when tears glistened in Talir’s eyes, Geralt started to understand, that his calm, almost happy voice was just a mask, put on to hide the man behind, a man, broken, maybe beyond repair. His answer echoed with unheard sobs, silent lament, elegiac sighs. “It is time.”

Geralt furrowed his brow and looked questioning at Talir.

“Time to slay the monster.” With that, the imprisoned witcher produced a small knife, shorter than a hand’s width from out of nowhere. It was unbelievable, that he had been able to hide that from the witchers, who searched him earlier. Yet, if anyone could do it, it was Talir, the thief, the master of the slip of the hand.

One last look at Geralt, a single tear finally falling and leaving a wet streak across his face, then he bend down and shoved it right into his own belly, even though it was so short, he had to push the handle into the wound as well.

For a long, creeping silence, he just sat there, bleeding onto his lap, crying, pushing his hand into his own skin. Then he fell, his body twitching, the healing abilities of a witcher fighting against the deadly wound and the blood loss.

Geralt could do nothing but watch, while bleeding and fighting continued, torturing the poor creature that was his friend, his pleading eyes still locked with Geralt’s, focused and real. He couldn’t speak anymore, but Geralt still understood, when his lips started moving. “Please, please…”

Please let me go; I lost my way in the trials, guide me to the place, where I am supposed to be.

Without a word, but shaking from restraint, Geralt pulled his own knife out of his belt, reached through the bars and slid Talir’s throat almost tenderly, letting the eyes go dark, the body relax. As last goodbye, he ruffled through Talir’s dark mane and put his head into a seemingly more comfortable position.

Then, he threw his bloodstained knife into a corner and fled, never to return to Kaer Morhen’s dungeon.

\----

Geralt and Eskel left Kaer Morhen on the next morning. Eskel returned for the winter, badly scarred, but alive, Geralt didn’t return at all. Not this winter, not the next. It took five years and meeting Eskel on the road, until he finally found his way back. And even then, he was never the same.


End file.
